


Sleeping with Ghosts

by shcwbiz



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Slow Burn, chris and tom are like, for you horny fuckers out there, fucking GAY, longfic, prepare to get ur heart fucked at the end, the sweetest dads-but-not-dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25525168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shcwbiz/pseuds/shcwbiz
Summary: It allseemedso perfect.
Relationships: Chris Wolstenholme/Tom Kirk, Matt Bellamy/Dom Howard
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Sleeping with Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> yo chile i'm bacc (used to be @atrocityexhibition but i nuked it out of embarrassment, and thus, we startin fresh) !!! 
> 
> just wanted to say i drew a lot of inspiration for this fic from _Diplomat's Son_ by Vampire Weekend and a book called _Pretend I'm Dead_ \- both are fabulous, check dat shit out ;)

_Wednesday, Jul 1st._

_10:35 am_

“Cillian, if you mention golf one more time, I am going to heave this monitor at your face.”

Dom just knew that his nerves were going to explode if that measly little redhead opened his mouth once again. 

The little conundrum was happening at their cold, quiet office - some bland, boring, shirt-and-tie, unexplained office job you see in every film ever. Except, to Dom’s dismay, this is anything but a setup for some doomsday flick. 

Cillian somewhat reminded him of a worm. He’s scrawny, doesn’t say a lot, bit of a pussy, bowl cut, probably watches _Planet Earth_ for fun; there’s a great chance he lives in his parents’ basement, feasting on Animal Crackers until the realisation that his hopes and dreams will never come into fruition hits and bleeds into his head…

Alternatively, that could be just what Dom pictures him to do.

Cillian squeaks, “Look, man, I just want to talk with my coworkers, am I not allowed to do that?” He’s draped over the wall separating their cubicles, staring at Dom’s hands as he typed and typed. “You’re not the nicest, but I’m trying…”

There’s a brief moment of silence. 

“Listen…” Dom stops his endless typing and lowers his voice. “I’m not sure anyone here _wants_ to talk to you, Cil.” _Sounding a bit harsh, let's toss in a nickname to throw him off,_ Dom thinks. He watches as the expression on Cillian's face drifts off into some sort of numbness. He probably shouldn’t find joy in someone else’s pain, but hey, when some crustless sandwich motherfucker tries to open a conversation about the world’s most boring sport, what else can you do? “Try talking to Steven or something.”

Steven’s elephant hearing kicked in. He’s on the complete other side of the room and he can hear his name like it’s a fucking dog whistle. He says in his frighteningly stern tone, “Don’t.”

Dom kind of saw him as a more stubborn, no-nonsense and intimidating David Byrne - maybe it’s the freakish resemblance, the suits that look like they were ripped straight out of that _Once in a Lifetime_ music video, or just… everything. He’s basically as charming as a brick wall, but he’s a lot more entertaining (unintentionally so) and insightful than desk jockey Ron Weasley over here. 

His parted black hair and eyes poked up from behind the wall of his cubicle, his dark eyes boring right through the both of them. “So am I allowed to do my work now, or do you circus animals want to keep chattering?” Steven said. He raised his eyebrows at them and slowly looked back down to his monitor, like an angry librarian. And Cillian put himself back in his cubicle, probably pissing his pants after that. 

Classic Steven. 

Dom reckons the loudest sound in the office is that endless cacophony of keyboards clacking (he also thinks that if you could hear thoughts, his inner rage towards Cillian's existence would be as loud as a plane taking off). It’s all a bit frustrating, but if he gets money for doing this almost every day, so be it.

He takes a sip of his coffee - watery, bland, instant coffee, in some shitty paper cup that they keep hundreds of stored in the break room. The taste of it has pretty much become one with his tongue and is like water, he thinks, now that it’s so integrated into his life.

It’s better than Steven’s homemade horchata, at least. The last time he asked to try it was the last time he’d felt such horrible regret, both in his mind and his stomach.

—

_Wednesday, Jul 1st._

_9:17 pm_

A needle exchange wasn’t really first choice on Dom’s “shit I could do that isn’t sitting at a desk all day” list. At around 9 pm, every day he hobbles over to some open, dimly lit and abandoned warehouse - in reality, it’s not really _that_ big.

The table Dom keeps all of his stuff on is probably gonna buckle under the weight of his containers and bowls any second. Cardboard boxes full of more stuff hides behind the table, along with a mini-fridge stuffed with Red Bulls (and V — sometimes he thinks the customers are too shitfaced to tell what they’re drinking). 

He doesn’t really know why he went with it.

Each fucked up addict that stumbles in gets their clean needles, gum and condoms (the energy drinks are for when he’s feeling nice, which isn’t often), and then disappears back into the abyss of nighttime to tend to their own business. Sometimes he gets tips from his customers if _they’re_ feeling nice, but usually he knows they’re getting the wrong idea from the condoms. Maybe he should read into things every time a new, grubby, STD-carrying hobo says he looks like a twink.

Speaking of, the condoms are always entertaining. He keeps a sizeable bowl full of them - black and clear ones - and lets them take “as many as they need”. It takes all of his willpower to refrain from making rude comments about their sex lives. 

The idea of sitting in some cold warehouse helping the fucked-up fuck themselves up even more is lightyears more pleasant than getting an earful about _How I Met Your Mother_ from Cil. And while he enjoys the show, having jokes explained to you from some guy who barely looks like he finished middle school ruins it completely.

One face stands out among the crowd — so much so that sometimes, when Dom finishes his coffees, he sees the dude's face staring back at him from the bottom of the cup; it makes throwing it into the trash a bit more satisfying. He’s some small, innocent looking guy with a resting smile and rat-like facial features, speaks a little too fast, always wearing a V-neck and skinnies for some reason, and he’s probably Dom’s favourite regular. He doesn’t actually look like he shoots up or anything; his arms are totally clean, yet he comes. 

Every day. 

Bit mysterious, but he’s not gonna ask any questions.

He shows up cradling a heap of used needles in his arms, asks for six fresh ones and a singular clear condom — Dom takes a mental note of this — and smiles, “Also, I really didn’t think someone like you would just…” He paused, probably choosing his words carefully. “…Sit out here helping the most bent people around. And you've been here for weeks.” 

Dom directs him to the little trash can near the table for the used ones, not looking up. “You should see the shit I do at work.”

The man replied, “Boring?” Dom noticed that sometimes, he can’t quite get the letter R out correctly, and thus has heard such things like ‘pwobably’ from him in the past. The sound of used needles dropping into the bin always seemed so loud.

“As boring as an empty room.” It pretty much _would_ be an empty room if it wasn't for Cil and Steven. There’s a sliver of him that strangely wants to get to know this dude. “This is a bit more enjoyable.”

“Oh… At least you’ve got something to pass the time.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Dom sighs. “…Care for a drink?” He’s already reaching for the mini fridge next to him. The man nods and gives him another tiny, cat-like smile.

His eyes light up as he’s handed two large cans of Red Bull with his loot, staring at them like they're made of solid gold. 

“Enjoy your night.”


End file.
